He was chuckling over this now with Hamo. ‘That storm was a godsend. Although I don’t doubt I’d have thought of some other reason if I’d had to. So, who is it’s so anxious to keep the Bignells at the manor for the night? And why?’
‘None o’ thy business,’ Hamo grunted. ‘Thee’s done thy part.’ He fished in the greasy pouch hanging from his equally unsavoury belt and produced some coins. I could hear them jingle as he passed them over, dropping them one by one into the other’s outstretched palm. ‘It’s never a good idea,’ he added, ‘to enquire too closely into Bellknapp affairs.’
‘You’re right there,’ the second man agreed. ‘Anyway, thanks for thinking of me. As I said, the storm was a blessing in disguise, and claiming that the footbridge had been washed away was a cunning stroke, even if I say so myself. I suddenly remembered my lad, Dick — he’s a friend of Ronan Bignell’s — telling me that Thomas can’t swim.’
The charcoal burner turned back to his fire. ‘Thee owes me a favour, so don’t thee forget it.’
‘I shan’t.’ The ‘lay brother’ led his horse forward from where he had tethered it among the trees, mounted and, picking his careful way, disappeared along the woodland path.
Still clutching Hercules in a warning clasp and moving as silently as I could, I followed a circuitous route back to the main track and set out in the direction of Wells. Some three-quarters of an hour later, I had reached the spot where the plank bridge spanned the admittedly swollen stream, but there was no question of it having been washed away, nor was there much flooding of the stream itself; certainly nothing that would have deterred a person set on reaching home, where hose and shoes could be hung out to dry.
Slowly, I retraced my steps in the direction of Croxcombe, Hercules running happily alongside me. The rain clouds had completely vanished by now, leaving behind a landscape of unrelieved green, heavy and monotonous beneath the unrelenting heat of the afternoon sun. I was in a quandary. I knew that I should warn somebody that the Bignells had been deceived into passing the night at the manor, but who? Which one of its inhabitants had arranged it, and why? Which of them could I trust? Suppose I confided in the wrong person? There seemed to be only one option open to me: I had to inform everyone of what I knew.
Supper was already halfway through by the time I reached the manor again. The Bignells were at the high table in the company of their daughter and son-in-law, Dame Audrea, Anthony and Simon Bellknapp. A place had been kept for me at one of the lower trestles, but I ignored it, marching straight up to the dais where, addressing no one in particular, I told what I had overheard between Hamo Gough and the stranger in Croxcombe woods.
When I had finished, there was a disbelieving silence. It was Thomas Bignell who spoke first.
‘That’s nonsense!’ he exclaimed. ‘I recognized the lay brother who brought the news. His son, Dick, is a friend of Ronan’s.’
Ronan nodded. ‘Master Fossett wouldn’t play a trick like that. And anyway, why should he?’
There was a general murmur of agreement. ‘You’re having a joke with us, Master Chapman,’ Anthony accused me, leaning back in his chair and regarding me through narrowed eyes. ‘I wonder why.’
‘I am not joking,’ I protested indignantly. ‘I’ve walked as far as the footbridge and it’s still in place. It hasn’t been washed away. Someone in this house had deliberately set out to keep Master and Mistress Bignell at Croxcombe for the night. Don’t ask me why! I can’t hazard a guess.’
My sincerity was beginning to take effect, and everybody started to glance uneasily at everyone else until Anthony suddenly brought his fist crashing down on the table, rattling the plates and cups.
‘Whatever the purpose behind this stupid jest may be — if, that is, friend Roger is not enjoying a joke at our expense — then let me beg you, Master Bignell, to take no notice of it. Stay the night as we had planned. Rose and Edward will be pleased to have you here, and in any case the hour is now too advanced to set out for Wells on foot. Rest assured that no harm will come to you under my roof.’ As he accentuated the word my, he smiled mockingly at his mother and brother as if inviting them to challenge his authority. (Simon was about to do so, but I saw Dame Audrea give his sound arm a restraining squeeze.)
The Bignells were looking hesitant, as though not quite sure what to make of it all, and still half inclined to suspect me of making up the story.
‘Perhaps …’ Mistress Bignell began shyly, nudging her husband gently in the ribs, ‘perhaps if, after all, the bridge isn’t broken …’
‘I won’t hear of your leaving,’ Anthony said firmly. ‘I shall consider myself deeply insulted if you go. My mother, also.’
Dame Audrea had, perforce, to agree. She had her reputation for hospitality to consider.
‘Please stay,’ she said graciously to the Bignells. She eyed me with dislike. ‘I’m still not altogether convinced that this is not some sort of stupid jest on the pedlar’s part, but otherwise, I can only echo my son’s assurance that nothing untoward will happen to you under this roof. You will be perfectly safe.’
Thirteen
Sunday evening passed as slowly as the rest of the day, except that there was now an atmosphere of unease and suspicion — although I had to admit to myself that the suspicion was directed mainly at me. For some reason, my story was only half believed, and my suggestion that someone should be despatched to Croxcombe woods to confirm it with Hamo Gough was ignored. Of course, there was one person in the household who would have obstructed the proposal, but there was no cause for him — or her — to raise objections while no move was made by anyone to contact the charcoal burner. When I protested, Anthony, as master of the house, merely shrugged and said he would have a word with Hamo in the morning. But as, by then, I would have started my journey back to Bristol and the Bignells would have returned to Wells, it was small consolation. I doubted if Anthony would bother. As he pointed out to me, whoever had wanted the Bignells to remain the night at the manor, and for whatever purpose, the culprit would hardly make a move against them now.
I sulked; and after evening prayers — conducted by an even more nervous Sir Henry, conscious of Anthony’s growing impatience with his stammering speech — I retired out of doors to a bench beneath one of the hall’s open windows and angrily discouraged anyone who tried to join me.
‘Oh, behave like a child, then!’ Rose shouted, rebuffed in her attempt to sit alongside me, and flounced off to walk with her father and Anthony, who were strolling, deep in conversation, beside the moat.
I felt guilty when she had gone: she was so plainly worried by my story, wishing to discuss it with me, that I tried to recall her, but by that time she was out of earshot. Ten minutes or so later, I felt even guiltier when Anthony and Thomas Bignell ambled back into view, once more on their own, obviously having rid themselves of her unwanted presence. I guessed that she might be the subject of their conversation and would therefore have been an embarrassment to them.
I was not alone in this suspicion. Edward Micheldever’s voice sounded suddenly just above my head, and I realized he was standing on the other side of the open window, in the hall.